


La Comédie humaine

by tb_ll57



Series: Concept Variables [3]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Near Future, post - endless waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They're not bound by anything but what they choose.  And the choice to choose it together.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Comédie humaine

'You're losing the beat,' Quatre's voice says. 'Count with your brain, not with your body. Don't bob your head, don't tap your foot. Don't count the half-beats, that will just slow you down.'

Heero closes the door behind him, and leaves his bag of groceries beside it. There are very expensive loafers on the rug, and the backpack sitting slumped beside the shoes is a brand Heero knows goes for hundreds. Quatre has a student.

Not a good one. The screech of a badly abused violin makes Heero wince.

The wooden screen gives Heero cover to walk from the door to the kitchenette, but once he's behind the counter there's only a wall of bamboo and a wine rack to hide him from the two in their small living area. Their flat is small, and with three people in it there is no possible way to avoid stepping on each other. Quatre's student is a plain-faced university student, but at least he's a new arrival; Quatre's beginning to bring in quite a lot of their spending money, as his student base expands. Heero nods to Quatre when their eyes meet, and then he turns his back to give them privacy, and opens the laundry cabinet under the sink to take their clothes out of the washer.

'Our hour is up,' Quatre says at last, halting a run of stilted scales. 'I don't want to keep you over. Work on Boccherini's Minuet this week. We'll start with that next Thursday.'

There's a knock on the door. Heero drops damp boxers back to the basket, and steps back to answer it. It's only five, and Quatre has students til seven, on weeknights. There's cash changing hands in the living area, and Quatre lifts the screen aside as Heero opens the door.

'Trowa,' Heero says.

'Trowa?' Quatre hurries to his side. 'Trowa! Hello! Oh my goodness, look at your hair.'

'Look at yours.' Trowa lets Quatre embrace him, even goes so far as to pat his shoulder. 'Your directions were pretty terrible. This is the fifth apartment I tried.'

'They keep changing the names of the streets.' Heero gets a handshake, to his surprise. Trowa's fingers are strong, and Heero tightens his grip automatically. A tiny crease next to Trowa's lip is a smile.

'Oh, excuse me--' Quatre ushers his student out, and somehow ushers Trowa in simultaneously. Quatre puts his arms around Trowa's middle, and comes up no further than Trowa's collarbone, but grins up the distance. 'Damn,' Quatre says, 'I knew you were going to be a giant.'

Heero thinks absolutely nothing of that exchange until that crease appears on both sides of Trowa's mouth. And Trowa's eyes are locked on Quatre's. And his hand comes to rest on the small of Quatre's back.

'I was doing the laundry,' Heero says, and goes back to the kitchenette.

'So. Paris.' Trowa discovers the groceries. Heero hears the bite of an apple, and drops the rest of their wet things into the basket. 'Nice place,' Trowa says. 'From your letter I thought it was bigger.'

'Oh, it's plenty of space for just us. Sit down. Heero, where's that white we had open-- or Trowa, no, you prefer beer--'

'Whatever you have is fine.' Trowa makes their sagging sofa creak as he sits. 'Don't fuss over me. You're teaching?'

'Not quite teaching.' Quatre reaches for the glasses he and Heero always use, the chipped glass tumblers they found at a charity shop, then digs in the cupboard for the actual wine stems. Heero gives him a long look, and Quatre ducks him with a blush. 'I've got six or eight casual students. A few on guitar, one or two failing musicians, or fancy themselves musicians, at least. It's terribly boring. What are you up to? I haven't heard from you in forever.'

'No wine for me.' Heero hefts their basket and carries it to their bath, leaving the door open so he can string their wash line to the notch on the window sill, neatly bisecting the living area-- with Quatre on one side and Trowa on the other. Quatre frowns at him. Heero pins their clothes up, resolutely looking at nothing but the clips in his hand and their clean linens as he drapes them over the line.

'I've been on the road,' Trowa is telling them. 'Never really sure where I was heading or why. I even stayed with Duo on L2, but he's--'

'He's started a scrap business, he says.' Quatre brings Heero water, sits on the sill beside him. Only feet away, Trowa props up his feet on the little trunk that serves as their table. 'With his lady.'

'They got married. She's pregnant already. I think she pushed him on it, but they seem happy.' Trowa sips his wine. 'Time to leave them at it.'

'Can you imagine,' Quatre muses. 'Children. How very brave of them. I think I should be terrified.'

'You? Don't you have millions of siblings and nieces and cousins?'

Quatre hands him a wet shirt. Heero hangs it. 'Terrified,' Quatre repeats. 'We'll have to send them something for the baby. And the marriage. How wonderful.'

'What about you, Heero?'

He's sloppy with a pin, and has to grab at an undershirt that slips loose. 'A few things,' he says shortly.

'He's got a part-time at the local cinema,' Quatre supplies, and falters when Heero looks at him again. 'And... and a few hours stocking at the grocery...'

'I should get moving,' Trowa says then. 'I just wanted to stop in. I need to hunt down a room for the night.'

'Nonsense, if you don't mind the couch. Hotels in Paris are ridiculously expensive, and you don't want to stay in a noisy hostel.' Quatre touches Heero's arm. 'We'd be glad of the company. Winter gets so depressing here.'

'It's almost Christmas.' Trowa's eyes are already on Heero when he turns with the empty basket. 'Might be tempting fate,' Trowa says, and if not for the glint in his eyes, both revealed now with that short-cropped hair, Heero might have thought he was serious.

Quatre does, for a stuttering second, before Heero elbows him and he realises he's been had. 'Oh, you two go on,' he sniffs, and hops off the window. 'If there's a coup this Christmas, I'm retiring to Neptune. Now you two relax and talk and I'll cook supper.'

Heero sighs. Trowa looks at him curiously, and Heero just shakes his head.

 

**

 

'The circus was just a place to hide,' Trowa murmurs. 'A good place, but not a long-term plan.'

'I found it hard to be in the Colonies,' Quatre contributes. He's perched on the window sill again, to keep the smoke from his cigarette from bothering the other two. He cushions his head on his arm, staring out at the night sky above them. 'It's not home anymore. After everything we did.'

'Too deep for me.' Trowa tips his head back for the last swallow of wine. 'I never had a home. I don't need one now.'

'Don't you?' Quatre smiles fondly at him. 'Well. Maybe not. But I know I do.'

'And this is it?' Trowa rolls his head to look around their flat-- what there is of it. The loft with their bed, and the cramped living area below. Heero sees it from Trowa's eyes, for a moment, and knows it looks inadequate, at best. But there are little touches of grace-- a plain vase donated by Clara, filled with vari-coloured river stones, and the slate tiles Quatre rescued from a garbage bin, and the large wood-frame mirror that Heero refinished. A home. Heero doesn't know. He's never had a home, either, and never dreamed of it.

Quatre's yawn almost splits his face. 'We need coffee if we're going to stay up all night talking.'

'Just go to bed. I won't take off with the dawn.' Trowa knocks his knee against Heero's. 'I count one couch and one bed. Who do I sleep with?'

There is no particular reason for that to sound anything but innocuous, but it is not innocuous at all. In fact Heero suddenly knows with certainty that this is an old attraction, and that the way Trowa has been looking at Quatre all night is a complex of old expectations which are now going to meet a blank wall. That blank wall being Heero's grinding jaws, and he has to make himself look down at the empty glass in his hands instead.

'Heero and I,' Quatre says, at his coolest, his face utterly unreadable. Until Trowa purses his lips, and says, 'Ah'; then Quatre blinks, and sucks so hard on his cigarette that the tip flares red hot.

'I'll get you sheets for the couch,' Heero says, and gets up.

'But you will stay tomorrow?' Quatre rises too, to move the trunk out of the way. 'Through the holidays, maybe? We should show you the city. You can be a proper tourist. There's museums, and galleries, gardens--'

'I'd rather do what you do.' Heero comes with a set of sheets, and their fingers overlap for a moment, as Trowa takes them. 'If that's all right.'

'Perfect,' Quatre says. 'Isn't it, Heero.'

'Perfect,' Heero echoes.

When they climb to the loft, ducking the sloping ceiling and clambering over each other with the ease of practise, Heero settles against the wall and Quatre takes the outer edge, pulling the heavy blankets up over them for warmth. There are unaccustomed noises in their flat-- Trowa's breaths from below, the springs of the couch croaking as he shifts-- but Heero listens as they get quieter and quieter, and finally blend into the usual ticking of the clock over the oven and the whistle of wind outside their building. Quatre's hand on his chest lays still over his heart, until Heero laces their fingers.

'It's like a reunion, a bit,' Quatre whispers. 'Just in time for Christmas. I didn't know how much I missed all of them. It's been just us for so long now.'

Nine months. As long as they'd known each other, almost, in that lost year of the war. Time enough for names and targets and secrets and losses. A few victories. In the quiet of his head, Heero thinks Duo Maxwell, Chang Wufei, Trowa Barton, and finds they don't have the same intimate ring that Quatre Winner has. They were friends, but only because he knew they ought to be, that he would welcome any of them as he's done Trowa-- as Quatre had for him, nine months ago.

Maybe not quite as Quatre had.

'Do you still read poetry?' he asks softly.

'Poetry?'

'Your mathematical poetry.'

'Hm.' Quatre rests his head on Heero's shoulder, playing with Heero's fingers. 'There's a professor at the Sorbonne who keeps a blog of it. I read that, sometimes. Not so often.'

'Why? I thought you liked it.'

'I do. But I don't suppose I need it so much, now.'

Heero isn't sure what that means. If it means anything, or if Quatre said it just to answer him, the way Quatre does sometimes. Quatre traces the outer ridge of his thumbnail, til Heero enfolds his hand. 'Tell me one,' he says finally.

Quatre is quiet for so long Heero thinks he's sleeping. He wonders if Trowa hears, and what he thinks of them. If he cares at all. Trowa cares deeply, but Trowa knows more than Heero does about letting go.

_'One two three dash four five,'_ Quatre whispers. _'Six one five dash four three. Two one dash one one dash one. Naught dash one two dash one two. Three four dash five dash five six. Naught one two dash three four five. Six dash five four three two dash one. Naught.'_

Inherent logic. Auditory flow. Aesthetic arrangement. Heero doesn't understand it, but he learnt long ago he doesn't need to. 'What's it called?'

_'Asparagus,'_ Quatre says, and yawns. 'Go to sleep, _mon chouchou_.'

He wraps his arm over Quatre's shoulders, and obeys.

 

**

 

Heero loads the reel and feeds the film through the manual loader. A quick tug of the film pulls it through to the leader cell, and he locks it for playback. He flips the light, and below his balcony the big screen comes to life. Heero sits back on his stool, hooking his ankles through the rungs.

'That's it?' Trowa asks.

'For the next hour and a half.' Heero checks his watch. 'There's not another showing until half-eleven.'

'Not much of a job.' Trowa crunches a handful of popcorn, dropping his elbows onto his knees. 'What film is this?'

'It's a documentary on malaria.'

'Inspiring.'

'I have to set up The Caravan of Love on the other screen.' They duck out the small door, and climb the catwalk steps in the dark to the next booth. Trowa obligingly shuts doors without being asked, and finds an out-of-the-way corner to stand in as Heero unboxes the hard drive containing the film and connects it to the cinema's PC. 'Which one do you want to watch?' Heero asks him, rubbing the mouse over the pad until the pointer cranks to life.

'Malaria or love. Malaria.' Trowa eats another handful of popcorn, and offers the bag to Heero. 'So this is what you do during the day.'

'Three days a week.'

'I'm not judging. It just doesn't seem like you.'

'I like it.' The file opens when he clicks on it, and Heero checks the programme to be sure playback will be smooth. The projector whirs to life with a gust of hot air, and the pre-film menu begins to play. 'We need the money.'

'Why do you need money? Quatre makes you pay rent? He's got the deepest pockets in Space, these days.'

'Winner might, but not him. He gave it up. He's disinherited.'

'What?' Trowa says sharply.

'He didn't tell you? I thought he wrote to you.'

'Guess he saves the big news for visits.' Trowa stares hard at the screen, breathing in short controlled inhales. Heero watches curiously, wondering why he's upset. Then suddenly Trowa smiles, and shrugs. 'So he really gave it up. I never thought he would. I can't believe they let him.'

'He said it took months to untangle all the legal obligations. It's not easy for him.' Now he really doesn't have anything else to do for an hour. He usually watches the films; he likes watching them, even when they repeat over and over during the day. These days, it's all he sees of the world outside. A world through someone else's eyes, a world full of frivolous and funny and strange and dire things in far away places. But with Trowa here he feels-- something keener than that. Something achy in his gut. He doesn't like that.

'What about you? You're not the settling-down type. Does he know that?'

'I don't think he has any illusions about anything. Why do you think that he does?'

'Then maybe he's grown up.' Trowa crumples his empty bag and tosses it into the garbage pail. It lands right in the middle almost noiselessly. 'He looks good. Different than before.'

'What do you want?' Heero asks him bluntly. 'He's--'

'I didn't know that he was. Sorry.' Trowa offers a bland look that becomes something like a laugh. 'You going to piss on him to mark your territory? I didn't know. I didn't plan on anything, either. So relax. If you were a dog, your ruff would be up.'

That embarrasses Heero, and he rubs at his nape, thinking maybe it's not just dogs who get jealous. 'I didn't know about you and him.'

'There's nothing to know. Not really.' Trowa twitches at the sleeve of his long jumper, and offers a hand. 'Here. See? He gave me that.'

It's a bracelet. A chain and a name plate, actually, engraved. Trowa slips it off for Heero to read it. It says _To The World You Are Someone._

_'But to someone, you are the world.'_ Trowa takes it back. 'We were sixteen. I told him then it didn't mean anything. He said it didn't necessarily apply to him. I thought he was lying, but I guess he wasn't.'

Heero finds then that he can feel sorry and jealous at the same time. 'He meant it. He means everything.'

'That I do know.' Trowa turns the bracelet over and over in his fingers. 'But you're happy with him?'

'We are...' Heero doesn't think to be dishonest, but he still doesn't know what word is right. Happy is not quite it. But Trowa only nods.

'You look good too,' he says. He pockets the bracelet. 'You've grown up as well.'

There's not much to say that. Heero doesn't try, and Trowa doesn't press him. After a moment, Trowa pulls his knees up to his chest and turns his eyes to the screen below. Heero turns his chair. They watch the movie in silence.

 

**

 

Heero recognises noodles. He recognises sausage and mussels, and thinks the other seafood might be clams. The prawns are perfectly pink and tender when he bites down. The sauce is olive oil and lemon and the herb tastes like parsley-- and none of it is burnt, none of it is overcooked, and there are only a reasonable number of dishes in the sink, not the dozens that herald the usual sort of kitchen adventure.

'Quatre,' he says in surprise, 'this is actually good.'

Quatre beams at him. 'Really? I tried-- Clara helped me with the recipe, but I cooked all of it--'

Trowa twirls a fork in the fettuccine and chews. 'Not bad.'

All of Quatre's teeth show in his excited grin. His fist across his cheek leaves a streak of flour, and there are large spills on his apron, but Heero can only smile back. The press of Quatre's lips on his is rough and tender at once. 'We're a bit flush, actually,' Quatre says, sliding onto a stool beside Heero. 'I got a new student today. Madame Duchesne referred her, if you can believe that. She thinks I might get a lot of seasonal business-- colonial families here on corporate travel, with children who need extra watching. And she thinks I ought to be charging more, even if I haven't any official qualifications. Anyway, I thought, we could use a bit of a celebration.'

'Are you going to keep doing it out of your home?' Trowa asks. 'If you had enough students, maybe you could rent a studio.'

'A studio?' Quatre seems taken aback, but Heero hears the catch in his voice, and knows by the way Quatre bites his lip that he likes that idea. 'That's a ways off,' he says. 'If we even stay in Paris.'

If. Heero hears that word, but suddenly he knows he doesn't believe it. The days when Paris seemed like just a place they happened to be in are long gone, over before they moved into this flat together. When he'd chosen to do this, he'd known it would be for a long time. But there's no momentum here. There's no forward, no path, no purpose. Paris is a place outside of all those things. Quatre fits here. Heero isn't sure anymore that he can.

'Were you thinking of going?' Trowa bisects a slice of sausage with his knife. 'Where would you go?'

'Oh,' Quatre says, 'I don't really know, I think. Heero? But we would like to see more of Earth, soon. And Trowa, maybe you could join us? There's nothing I dislike more than lonely wandering.'

'I don't mind being lonely,' Trowa says, and pops the sausage into his mouth.

'You wouldn't,' Quatre teases, rolling his eyes. 'And probably Heero's the same. Yet here we all are. I just think we ought to cut out the lengthy interlude of existentialism and alienation.'

'There may be something to that.' Quatre pauses to light a cigarette, and Trowa tilts one of their candles for him to reach the flame. 'What do you think, Heero? Care to join us in wandering?'

'Our lease runs through next August,' he says.

'We're only joking.' Quatre smiles at him, and blows smoke over his shoulder. 'Although maybe a short trip? I've been meaning to see more of the country here. We could take a long weekend. What about Provence? Find a little guest house, somewhere like L'Isle sur-la-Sorgue-- Clara liked it there.'

'I'd be up for it. Heero?' Trowa reaches over his plate to Heero's, and steals a prawn. His eyes are bright, a gem-like green-- or at least Heero thinks so, until the candlelight changes. 'Cities always make me feel trapped. I don't know how you do it.'

'I'll have to get off work.' Quatre mutely appeals him, and Heero surrenders. 'I'll ask tomorrow. When?'

'Why wait?' Trowa says, and takes one of Quatre's cigarettes. 'Let's go this Friday. Have a Christmas holiday.'

Heero does not like spontaneity. It doesn't seem like he has much choice. He likes that even less. But he nods. Quatre casts that glowing smile again. At Trowa, who returns it.

 

**

 

There's a new film on Wednesday. A political documentary about a famous French politician, one of the old Romafeller Council. Heero tries to listen, but he can't focus.

Trowa spikes his hair with a hand, the third time in fifteen minutes. 'There's no audience. How do they make money?'

'Student trips and art-house showings. Afternoons are always light.' He has a headache. The lunch that Quatre packed is tasteless to him, and it's not just that it's Quatre's cooking. Trowa looks unbothered, though, and that's what Heero finds most irritating. He doesn't know what yesterday means for today or for tomorrow, but he knows Trowa means something by it.

'You think Quatre has his heart set on Provence?' Trowa asks abruptly. 'We could go to Brittany instead. It's supposed to be unique. Different culture.'

'Paris is already a different culture.'

'Sorry,' Trowa says, after a cautious pause.

'No.' Heero takes a pause of his own, and tries to form some words with multiple syllables that sound like reasonable human conversation. 'Quatre wants to show off his French. You haven't heard them here-- the way they say his name. Kwat-twa.'

Trowa snickers. 'He's sort of a fit here, isn't he? He always seemed just a little too good to be true, before. He's more real, here. You, though.'

On screen, they're showing film of Treize Khushrenada addressing the Romafeller Council. 'What about me.'

'This place isn't you, Heero. This life. You're killing time.' Trowa shakes his box of Berlingots, and finds another orange-flavoured. 'You could do worse than kill it with Quatre. But you're itchy.'

He is. He's known for months. He doesn't like that Trowa knows in a day.

He hopes that Quatre doesn't know. But that's half of the problem. Quatre doesn't.

'I'm thinking I'll go to the Middle East next,' Trowa says then. 'Egypt, or maybe Jordan. I want to see the desert. Sleep out of doors. Cities intrude too much.' He looks at Heero, eye to eye. 'You should join me.'

'Quatre likes Paris.'

'Just you, then. Quatre would wait for you. Quatre can hold on to a “maybe” for a decade, if he's motivated.' Trowa offers a sudden, disarming smile. 'I would know.'

'I have to change the malaria movie,' Heero says, and leaves Trowa sitting there in the projection balcony alone.

 

**

 

Quatre meets them outside at six, his violin case slung over one shoulder and his bright hair scattered with falling snow. 'I thought we could go out,' he tells them, brushing Heero's cheek with a kiss, squeezing Trowa's arm. 'Walk around the city. Maybe see the Champs-Elysées. It's Christmas Eve, after all, and the Champs-Elysées is _la plus belle avenue du monde._ They'll have decorated all the trees with lights. This year they're supposed to look like falling stars. I thought it especially appropriate for us.'

Heero takes the violin from him, so he can put his arm over Quatre's shoulders. Trowa falls in on the other side. It's cold out, but not bitterly frozen, and the snow under their shoes crunches firmly rather than sliding into slush. The sunset is just a hazy pink twilight, and there's no wind to carry the normal noise of an active city, so they walk in their own cocoon of deepening night. It's quiet and peaceful and has a kind of hushed perfection to it, calming Heero's nerves. Trowa's visit may have some sour notes, but it won't do them lasting harm. And perhaps his itchiness about Paris isn't about Paris at all, but about the date. He'd felt it last Christmas, too, claustrophobic in the midst of Sanq's too-loud, too-bright celebrations. He'd spent these hours of Christmas Eve on the rooftop of the palace, eyes closed, willing the glacial hours to just finally pass. But this year is different. This year is free of those burdens. This year he chooses where he is, who he's with. It's not just safety from danger, from war. It's freedom. He can do anything he wants. Leave Paris if he wants.

Stay. With Quatre. Quatre smiles at him, as if he knows what Heero's thinking. Heero smiles back.

With the night so fine they end out walking for hours, roving landmark to landmark as if they were tourists themselves, pointing out the sights to each other in joking competition to find the most marvellous. Notre-Dame has a Christmas tree so tall it nearly tops the gothic cathedral, hung with huge golden garlands and red bulbs, and there are dozens packed onto the small ice skating rink in front of Hotel de Ville. All of the boutiques are decorated, too, mannequins dripping crystal snowflakes and Bethlehem stars. Holographic starscapes splash over building facades, so that whole blocks seem to be floating in space. But it's not until they reach the Champs-Elysées that they find themselves awash in real Christmas spirit. It is every bit as beautiful as reputed. Traffic is thinning by the time they get there, with business hours past, but the crowds of Parisians headed to the shops and cafes along the avenue are thick and happy. People call across the street to each other, raucous Christmas greetings, and there is alcohol everywhere, being handed out right on the pavement. Trowa buys glasses for each of them from a vendor, little plastic cups of average red wine, but they toast each other and drink it down. The tall trees lining the avenue toward the Arc de Triomphe straddle a delicate line between garish and enchanting; strings of blue lights drape branch to branch far above their heads, almost as far as the eye can see. Like falling stars.

'Heero,' Trowa says suddenly, 'looks like someone's trying to tell you something.' He points up. Heero cranes his head skyward.

Quatre bursts into delighted laughter. 'Mistletoe, Heero; not God.'

'Oh.' Quatre poses expectantly, hands piously clasped, eyes demurely low. Heero leans in, to lift his damp hair away from his cheek, and pecks him on the nose.

'Lame,' Trowa says.

'Heero!' Quatre gives him a shove. 'You are the worst tease.'

'I know.' He snags Quatre in by the collar of his coat, and presses their mouths together. He leaves a second kiss on Quatre's neck, and Quatre strokes his cheek.

'My turn.' Trowa. Trowa takes Quatre in both arms, tips him back, and plants a lingering kiss on him. Quatre is lobster red when Trowa releases him, and Heero's head feels hot and unpleasant. 'Merry Christmas,' Trowa says cheerfully.

'Merry Christmas?' Quatre whispers tightly to Heero, hours later when they're buried under their blanket in the loft, and Trowa's breathing below is deep with sleep. 'How dare he.'

Quatre lies face-down, away from him, but Heero can't find a comfortable way to lay, tonight. He's too hot, then too cold, and an old twinge in his shoulder is bothering him. Quatre's feet are in his way. He means to say, This weekend trip is not a good idea-- but instead hears himself tell Quatre, 'You slept with him, before.'

Quatre flips to face him, pushing impatiently at his hair. 'I've never asked who you've been with.'

'I know,' he says stiffly, immediately regretting that. 'I'm sorry.'

Quatre rubs his mouth, covers his eyes. 'He's in some kind of trouble.' He sits up, to dangle his feet over the ledge of their loft. Heero joins him. Below, Trowa is asleep on the couch, pillow over his head, hand hanging limply toward the carpet. 'I was going through his laundry. There's blood on his old clothes. And he has a lot of weaponry.'

'He said he was just wandering.'

'He's never just wandered, Heero. I've never known anyone so capable of putting himself at the centre of a brewing conflict.'

On the floor below Trowa sighs out deeply and settles deeper into the couch. They watch silently until he's still again. Heero thinks of Trowa's uncanny foresight-- Mariemaia Barton's army, and before that the encroachment of OZ forces into the Colonies, and before that Operation Meteor. Catherine Bloom called it a nose for nastiness. Duo had called it a deathwish in progress. Trowa anticipates, very skillfully. If he is in trouble now, it's part of something larger, unquestionably. And Trowa is bringing it to them.

'He asked me about you,' Quatre says. 'This morning, when I was making breakfast. He asked-- intimate things about you.'

'What?' Quatre shivers in the cold, and Heero pulls the duvet up over their shoulders. 'Why?'

'If I had told you I loved you. If I were going to. If I thought you loved me. If I thought you were really going to stay with me.'

The same things Trowa asked him. 'What did you answer?'

'Heero... Heero-- you know I'm not why he's here, don't you? I mean, do you realise that?'

'It might not mean that,' Heero whispers. 'He kissed you.'

'Even if I'd been single and wanting, he wouldn't stay in Paris for me. I don't know what the kissing means, but-- it's not about that. I think what he really wants to know is whether you can be pried off.'

Quatre is very carefully circling the question at the heart of that. Heero very carefully does not volunteer an answer. He doesn't know. But he's thinking, too, about that offer Trowa made, about living off the land in the desert. He's thinking of sunsets in deep grapefruit red, and the smell of sand. The taste of cactus pear and sunburn.

'Heero,' Quatre says then. 'We don't have to pretend to be anything other than what we are.'

Crossly Heero retorts, 'I don't know what that means,' as Quatre looks at him. Just looks. Heero scratches the back of his head, and adds, 'How would you feel if he had come here for you?'

'Sorry for the wasted trip,' Quatre says, well restrained. He takes Heero firmly by the jaw and kisses him. 'You'll do what you want. Just don't be surprised.'

 

**

 

'Cash,' Quatre says, and Heero waves it. 'Luggage-- thanks-- Heero, is my phone in your pocket? I can't find it.'

'I have it.' Trowa hands it over. 'Checking the weather in Provence. Rain this morning, but should be clear by the time we get there.'

'Right. Okay. I'll get our tickets; I'll meet you at the platform.' Quatre taps his watch. 'We're running late. I hate being late.'

'It will be fine, Quat.' Trowa catches Quatre by the shoulder as he turns. 'Wait-- you have a tangle.' His fingers move gently in Quatre's hair, as Quatre flushes dully and avoids Heero's glare. 'There.'

When Quatre is out of hearing, Heero says, 'Stop doing that.'

Trowa meets his eyes with a shrug. 'Doing what?'

'It makes him unhappy.'

'I believe it made him unhappy when I didn't express affection toward him.' Trowa points as a pretty three-tone chime announces an imminent departure. 'Train's that way.'

Less than five minutes. Heero can see Quatre at the ticket window, speaking to a teller. On Christmas Day, there aren't many people in the Gare de Lyon station, and the giant potted palm trees look oddly neglected with their Christmas decorations sagging in the dim daylight. They circle wide around a family of squabbling children, and Heero holds back courteously for a pair of old women in wide Parisian hats to pass. They're halfway to their train when Trowa suddenly moves sideways, toward a kiosk with travel brochures.

'What?'

'We should switch our tickets,' Trowa says. 'What about the French Riviera? Why stay in France? Let's go to Monaco.'

'He's already buying tickets.'

'There's no law against changing our minds.' Trowa extends a pamphlet, but his eyes aren't on Heero. They're sweeping the terminal, just above head-height. The service corridors over the storefronts. Heero's tense before he realises that Trowa is, too.

'You should come with me,' Trowa says, soft and urgent. 'There's a whole life waiting out there. Adventure.'

'What are you running from?' he asks, just as a sharp metallic ping echoes through the station, and papers spray in every direction.

Heero slams to the floor, rolling for the cover of the kiosk away from the direction of that shot. Trowa has gone in the other direction, long legs crunched compactly behind a big garbage bin. Heero scans the service corridors for himself, and catches a brief, too-brief glimpse of red laser light visible in dust motes high in the air, gone before he can pinpoint its origin, but definitely coming from behind the shelter of one of those stupid palm trees.

The family with the children aren't sure what's happened, and people are staring rather than running. That lasts until Heero makes a cautious attempt to break from the kiosk toward the base of the clock tower. A bullet shatters marble tile an inch from his trainer as he sprints for it. Now there is shouting, and a team from security are heading toward them. Heero tries to wave them off, but they come right into the line of fire. One goes down, dropping without so much as a gasp. The other two have to duck away, useless before they even arrive, and unarmed anyway. They could be stuck here until the gunman reaches a target or counter-terror forces arrive, anywhere from six hours to forty-eight.

'Heero,' Trowa hisses, and something black and small comes sliding across the tile toward him. Heero grabs it as it careens by, and finds it to be a 380 ACP pistol. Heero accepts it without question, checks the mag and unlocks it automatically, already scanning for the best position to train on that shooter. There's just not enough cover in a place designed to facilitate large crowds. He's too exposed by the clock to turn and fire, not without knowing exactly where to aim. Trowa's in no better position, confined by the shelter of that fragile aluminium garbage bin. Quatre--

Still has one of the best pitching arms Heero has ever seen.

The small red object that goes flying through the air streaks with perfect trajectory. And then it explodes, showering the air with pulverised apple. Heero needs less than a second to figure out the angle, and Trowa is rising to his knees on his right. There are eleven shots, in quick succession, and the false windows over the service corridors break and fall, and behind them a dark form slumps and is still.

With mechanic indifference the clock chimes. Their train is departing.

Heero takes a slow step away from the clock. No shots. No second shooter? No sign of it. Security is venturing out again, toward their companion sprawled on the floor. A child somewhere is crying. An aproned girl crouched by one of the food stands stares open-mouthed at him as he passes her with his gun still at the ready. 'Quatre?' Heero calls. 'Quatre.'

'Here.' Heero starts to unclench, finally, seeing Quatre's head rise, coming out from under a café table. Then he sees the blood.

'I'm all right. I'm all right.' Quatre's arm wraps him tight, though, just a little shaky. 'You're all right? You're not hurt?'

'I'm fine.' The shoulder. No, upper arm. Quatre lets Heero strip him down, coat and jumper and scarf and shirt-- a puncture in the muscle of the bicep, with no exit wound. 'Where's Trowa?'

He twists to look. Security are trying to herd people together toward the biggest restaurant, but Trowa isn't in that crowd. Not by the garbage bin, not by the kiosk. Not anywhere.

Quatre takes the gun from Heero, and wipes it down with the corner of his shirt. 'Get rid of it, Heero.'

He doesn't question the wisdom of that. He uses his own coat to hold the gun, and strikes a casual walk to the toilets around the corner. There's a father and son inside, the boy in tears, and the father not much better. Heero ducks around them and goes into a stall, closing it and locking it. The toilet isn't big enough to flush the gun, but there is a grate in the floor meant to catch overflow. He unscrews a bolt with the edge of his coat's zipper tab, and lifts the grate. The gun just fits into the drain, and he pushes until it lodges in a bend. It won't hide in there forever, but it will be missed in a casual sweep. He screws the grate down again, and leaves without looking at the father and son.

There is a police officer speaking to Quatre when he emerges. A gendarme, a real gendarme, stands beside, talking quietly into a military satellite phone. They're locking down the terminal, and there's a medical team with the security guard who was shot. It's an official crime scene. When Heero looks aloft, he sees them erecting a tarp over the window he and Trowa shattered with their return fire, and curses his lack of foresight. He'll be visible on every surveillance camera--

No, he won't. Those were the extra shots. The two he fired at the shooter, the one that hit Quatre, and two more that must have been fired at them; and six that took out every camera aimed at the floor. There won't be any evidence.

Any evidence at all. Trowa is gone.

 

**

 

'No,' Quatre says.

'You've had no contact with him at all?' the Preventer presses him. 'You never spoke to him?'

'No,' Quatre says again. 'I wrote him four or five letters. To my knowledge they were received, but he never replied to them, never rang me, never contacted me in return. I hadn't heard from him at all--'

'When was the last time you'd seen him?'

'New Years Eve of 196.'

The Preventer who'd questioned Heero had had an easier job of it. He's known to Preventers, through Sanq and Relena, and there's a very long file in their archives about him, requiring a very high clearance to read. They'd run up against that wall as soon as they'd run a search on his name, and they aren't sure what to do with him now but let him go. Quatre is another story. So far as they know, Quatre is just a civilian who's been caught up in something messy, and they want to know what.

The police station they sit in has pleasant enough rooms, even for interrogation. There's natural light, a view of a small municipal garden out the window, a little breath of air from the vents. Quatre has a mug of coffee in front of him, but the gauze on his arm is leaking spots of blood, and his lips are thin with effort and pain. Heero is not allowed to see him until they're done with him, and he's only allowed to watch the interview because Preventers want to watch his reaction to it. It's easy enough to block out any emotion, to focus on the words and not on anything behind them, but it's turning toward night and he is tired and hungry and wants to go home. Wants to take Quatre home, and they are stopping him from doing it.

'196,' the Preventer repeats. 'Interesting.'

'Is it?' Quatre retorts. 'Then by all means, let's repeat the question a few dozen times more.'

Heero cracks a smile for that. Quatre is playing a part for all he's worth, and Heero recognises more than a little Marcus Duchesne in this performance. The Preventers aren't enjoying it as much as he is.

'Did you expect his arrival in Paris?'

'How could I do, if he never contacted me?'

'So you hadn't spoken to him in three years, but you welcomed him as a guest.'

'Yes.'

'Because he's a friend?'

'Yes.'

'Just a friend?'

Quatre puts his elbows on the table and leans in toward his Preventer. 'Are you asking about my sex life?' he says, quite polite. 'That's rather pervy, isn't it. Would you like a list of all my “friends”? Names and dates of copulation?'

'You were photographed on the street, kissing Mr Barton.'

'Being kissed.'

'Listen, kid.' The other Preventer, the one who's been listening from the corner. 'Let's be honest, _comprends_? You want to go home, and we want to let you go. But we need to know what Barton's done. He's a bad young man. Mixed up with very bad things.'

Quatre sucks in his cheeks. Heero knows that face. 'What do you want to know?' Quatre asks quietly.

God. Quatre is going to lie to them.

'Did he tell you anything about himself? What he does, where he was going?'

'No,' Quatre replies. 'It all came from me. I suggested we take a weekend holiday to Provence. So far as I knew, that's what we were doing this morning.'

'Then why did you write him this money order for twelve thousand euros?'

That is new. Heero tenses, trying to keep himself still. His Preventer is watching him closely, to see if he knew that. He keeps his face rigidly blank.

'Where did you get that,' Quatre says.

'Seized from an abandoned duffel on the one o'clock train out of Le Mans. This is your signature, non? Why did you write this?'

'He asked,' Quatre says.

'He didn't tell you why he needed the money?'

'He's a friend. He said he needed it, so I gave it to him. I didn't ask him why.'

'Where did you get the money?' The Preventer gestures, and his partner hands over a file. 'You know what this is, yes?'

Quatre tilts it toward the light. 'It would appear to be a copy of the official renunciation of claim that I signed two years ago.'

'Signing away your claim to the Winner Estate and all associated funds.'

'Yes.'

'So where did you get twelve thousand for Barton?'

Quatre is silent.

'We can get a warrant for your account information,' the Preventer tells him, almost kindly. 'It will not be difficult. By this time next week will know exactly who gave you the money, and we will have to talk to them, as well, you understand. Anyone who has even remote contact with Barton.'

'What's he done?' Quatre asks suddenly. 'Why are you after him?'

'He never told you what he did, during the war?'

It's about Gundams? Heero looks sharply at his Preventer shadow.

'In fact,' the interviewer continues, 'there's very little public record of what you were doing, during the war.'

Quatre's lips turn up at the corners. 'I may not have Winner money, anymore, sir, but I do still have access to Winner lawyers. That name and number I am happy to supply you.'

Heero's Preventer leans on the wall beside Heero. 'He should talk,' the young woman says.

Heero glances at her again. 'What are you fishing for? You don't care about me or Quatre.'

'Just Barton,' she confirms. 'A little truth will go a long way now.'

Heero faces her. 'We were going to Provence. For a weekend. We got to the station, there was shooting, and then he was gone. That's all.'

'Did you know about the money?'

'Do you know why he wants it? Twelve thousand doesn't buy a mobile suit. It buys weapons, it buys drugs or art. Any of a dozen things that aren't worth the notice of Preventers.'

'I'm sure he came looking for more. The question is whether Winner sent him somewhere he can get it.'

'That's your problem. Not ours. If Barton suckered him, that's too bad, but it's not criminal.'

The door opens. The two Preventers from Quatre's interview. 'Let him go,' one says briefly. 'Get him a ride home.'

Quatre steps out into the corridor. His eyes find Heero, and he presses his lips tight together. Heero nods once.

 

**

 

Their flat is quiet and dark when they finally enter. It's well after ten. They only left at nine that morning, but it feels like it's been a very long time away.

'How's your arm?' Heero asks, slinging their unused luggage into a heap beside the door.

'It wants a stiff drink.'

They have a bottle of fine gin that was a Christmas gift from Clara. Heero shucks the foil wrapping and works out the stopper. It pops out gently. There's no ice, but Heero finds a lime in their icebox, and divides it between them. It will serve. When he clinks their glasses together, Quatre manages a little smile.

'Happy Christmas,' Heero says quietly.

'Heero.' Quatre puts his head on Heero's shoulder, and Heero accommodates him by holding, setting down his glass to link his hands at the small of Quatre's back, breathing in his scent, his steady heartbeat.

'I'm sorry,' Quatre says then.

'For things Trowa did? Why?'

'For not telling you about the money.'

With a sigh, he releases, steps back, knowing they have to have this out, and knowing too it will be unpleasant. 'Did you always have it? All this time?'

Quatre sits slowly at the counter, rubbing his arm. 'Madame Duchesne,' he admits, eyes and voice both low. 'She said she wanted me to have emergency funds. It was a gift. Then Trowa... he said he needed it. That part is true. I did ask why... but he said it was better if I didn't know too much about it. He promised it wasn't for anything bad.'

'Did you put any parametres on “bad”?' He finishes his gin in a final gulp, and puts his glass in the sink. 'He got you shot.'

'The person with the gun got me shot. Trowa got you off the rap for it.'

Heero plants his hands on the counter. 'He came here for money.'

'I know.' Quatre finally reaches for his own drink, and sips slowly. 'I realised this morning, when he asked if I had anything I could give him. All the flirting was just--'

'Seducing you.'

'Buttering me up,' Quatre says, and he puts his hand over Heero's. 'And don't tell me it worked. I would do the same for anyone.'

'That doesn't make it better,' he feels compelled to point out. 'He used you.'

'He needed help. And he was lonely. I think that was true, too. He knew you wouldn't leave with him, and he would never have stayed here, but he wanted a friend.'

He'd almost forgot it, in the chaos of the day. Trowa at the kiosk, saying _You should come with me._

At last, he says, 'Why didn't you tell me about the money? When Madame Duchesne gave it to you.'

'I was going to tell you. For Christmas.' Quatre stares down at their hands, quiet now. 'So we could go somewhere. It would have been enough money to take us wherever you wanted to go.'

Quatre has surprised him before, but never like this. Heero can't think of what to say. 'What about your music students? A studio?'

'Those are just things,' Quatre tells him, almost bewildered by the question. Heero doesn't know if he believes that, doesn't know how Quatre could even think to fake it, after a day like this day. 'Paris is just a place that happens to have them. I don't mean for us to be bound here by something that means so little. I don't mean for us to be bound-- Heero...'

Wherever Trowa is now, he's somewhere in the midst of trouble. Whether that trouble will ever find them, Heero doesn't know. Maybe. Maybe one day soon they'll go looking for it-- they've always done before, after all. But he doesn't want to, not yet, even knowing something might be waiting out there. He understands what Quatre means. It's not about the cash, it's not about the flat, it's not about obligations. It's not even about an aimless desire to be somewhere else, do something new. They're not bound by anything but what they choose. And the choice to choose it together.

He leaves the kitchen. Quatre's eyes are on him, lips parted as if he would speak, call him back, but then he wets them with the gin and faces the sink. Heero climbs the ladder to their loft, and stretches an arm beneath their mattress. Quatre is stubbornly still when Heero returns to his side, and only glances sidelong at the envelope Heero places at his elbow.

'I meant to give you this,' he said. 'For Christmas. Then he came. And anyway... you said you don't need it anymore.'

When he opens the envelope, he at least treats the paper tenderly. The tilt of his head deepens, his long pale eyelashes swooping low as he reads it.

_y = La(x/m - sa)/r2_

_yr2 = La(x/m - sa)_

_eyr2 = x/m - sa ; eyr2 + sa = x/m_

_m(eyr2 + sa) = x ; meyr2 + msa = x_

_meyr2 = x - msa_

_merry = x-mas_

Quatre, in the end, says nothing at all. He only reaches, unerring, for Heero's hand. He lifts it to his mouth, to press a kiss to his palm.

'Give up smoking for the new year,' Heero murmurs.

Quatre barks a sudden laugh, loud in the quiet. 'I'll be a terrible grump if I give it up all to once.'

'We'll survive.'

Quatre leans over the counter to kiss him. 'Go take down the laundry,' he answers, and kisses Heero again. And again. And again. Heero never gets to the laundry.


End file.
